Throne and Thread

Chapter 31 Fragments of Us

Sometimes memory fails, but destiny never forgets its turn.

- Vritant Vardhan

Vritant sat through the conference, his expression unreadable as numbers and voices droned on.

For a fleeting second, his gaze shifted from the presentation on his laptop to the camera feed-his wife, curled up in her cabin, exactly where she always sat, leafing through a file with that quiet intensity of hers.

A faint pause. Then he switched back to the slides, as if nothing had happened.

The meeting ended. Chairs scraped, murmurs faded, and one by one, the room emptied. Vritant rose too, adjusting his cuffs as Neil fell into step beside him, file in hand for the next briefing.

"Sir, the complete record of each person from the riots," Neil said, passing the file. Vritant accepted it with a curt nod.

"Also, sir-Dr. Radhika Mehta has been trying to reach you again regarding the appointment. As per your instruction, I declined her calls and messages."

Neil's words hung in the air.

Vritant stopped mid-step. His spine stiffened, eyes unfocused.

Dr. Radhika.

An appointment. For his wife.

One week.

He had... forgotten?

The corridor around him blurred, voices slipping into a distant hum. He clenched the file tighter, knuckles whitening as the weight of a single word carved through him-forgotten.

Not a deal. Not a meeting. Not some pawn in his endless chess game.

His wife.

Her appointment.

Her health.

The one thing he had sworn never to fail at.

A sharp ache shot through his chest, fiercer than any bullet or betrayal. He had walked through fire, spilled blood, shattered glass, but this-this lapse-felt unforgivable.

For the first time in years, Vritant Vardhan felt powerless, and it wasn't because of an enemy.

It was because of himself.

He walked into his cabin and dropped into the chair, but his mind was already elsewhere. Neil hovered, phone in hand, but Vritant barely lifted a hand to dismiss him. One gesture. That was enough. Neil left without a word-he never needed instructions twice, and he never questioned.

Alone, Vritant unlocked his phone. No calls. No messages. Nothing from Radhika.

Of course. No one reached him unless he allowed it. He'd locked her number in a special category two years ago, a line only he could cross.

He dialed. The third ring. She answered.

"Radhika, I forgot," he said before she could speak. His grip tightened around the phone, as if he could crush the truth.

A pause. "What do you mean, Vritant?" Her tone was calm, but laced with concern.

"The appointment," he admitted. The word burned on his tongue. "I forgot."

Her sigh was almost inaudible. "The pills.

They're messing with your brain, aren't they?

You're taking them regularly?" Her voice dropped softer, steadier, as if trying to anchor him.

"You never forget, Vritant. Not people, not details.

Your sharpest memory is both your blessing and your curse-and we both know therapy couldn't erase a single scar.

You remember things others pray to erase.

Dates, deaths, betrayals. They live in you like scars that never heal. So let's test this, shall we?"

His jaw tightened. "I'm not your student, Radhika."

"No, you're worse," she countered softly. "You're the man who turned memory into a weapon. Let's see how sharp the blade still is."

She didn't start with the obvious.

"Which standard did you fail?"

"Sixth," he answered instantly.

"Fifth standard-Hindi paper exam date?"

"Ninth February."

"When did you first hear your wife's name?"

His voice softened, distant. "When I was seventeen. Papa was on the phone, talking about Ashwin Adani sending his daughter, Adhrita Adani, to the US."

"Who is your best friend?"

"Agnivanshi."

"What's Agnivanshi's full name?"

A smirk flickered, even now. "You can't trick me, Radhika. That's one secret you'll never pull out of me."

Radhika didn't let him off with that half-smirk. Her silence carried weight, and when she spoke again, it was sharper.

"Fine. Then tell me-when did you first hold a steering wheel?"

His fingers flexed around the phone. "When I was nine. Papa sat beside me. Said I had more control than grown men."

"And your first race?"

"Fifteen. Pune track." No hesitation.

Radhika's tone stayed even, but her questions shifted, sharper. "What was the headline the day you won your first trophy?"

"'Vardhan Heir Flies Before He Can Walk.' Front page."

Radhika's voice was calm, probing. "And the last thing your brother said to you before... everything?"

Vritant's chest tightened. Memories surged: small hands tossing coins in the courtyard, laughing as they tried to guess which side would land up, endless summer evenings filled with mischief.

"...'Two coins, same pocket,'" he whispered, almost choked by the weight of it.

For Vritant, it was a compass, a curse, and a wound all at once.

"Your father's blood group?"

"O positive."

Her voice softened, deceptively calm. "Your mother's favorite flower?"

"Lotus."

"And your wife's favorite color?"

Silence.

For the first time, Vritant blinked. He searched his mind, dragged up images-Adhrita in saris, in casual kurtas, in the hospital whites. Too many colors. Too many moments. Nothing certain.

He forced a laugh, but it rang hollow. "Don't play games, Radhika."

"I'm not playing," she said quietly. "I'm showing you what the pills are doing. You remember battles from decades ago, dates down to the last digit... but when it comes to something as simple, as intimate, as your wife's favorite color-you blank out."

Her words sliced deeper than any scalpel. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, chest tight.

For a man who never forgot... forgetting suddenly felt like losing.

"Your mother's favorite flower is not lotus," Radhika said, her tone calm but piercing.

Vritant blinked, fingers tightening around the phone. "It's... my wife's favorite," he admitted, the words almost defensive.

Even with his near-photographic memory, details blurred under stress-especially with the pills gnawing at the edges of his mind. For a moment, he felt the unsettling dissonance of knowing everything... and nothing.

??? V ? A ???

Vritant tore through every drawer, yanking clothes, files, and random papers onto the floor. Wardrobes creaked under the force of his rummaging. The room looked like a storm had passed through.

Adhrita stepped out of the washroom and froze, her hand on the doorframe. Her eyes widened at the chaos, taking in the mess.

"Vritant... what are you doing?" she asked, walking cautiously toward him.

"I... I can't find my lighter," he muttered, yanking open a locked wardrobe with a frustrated shove.

Adhrita raised an eyebrow, calm amid the chaos. "It's with me."

He froze, hand mid-search. "With you? I... forgot?"

"You gave it to me when we went to meet your relative," she said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"My relative?" He blinked, confused, his mind catching up.

"Yeah... your sasurji. Remember?"

(Father-in-law)

The realization hit him like a slap. He had handed it to her himself. He stared at her for a long moment, the absurdity of his own forgetfulness sinking in.

Adhrita opened her wardrobe, revealing another chaotic mess. She rifled through it, pulled out her handbag, and retrieved his lighter. She handed it to him. He took it, clutching it as if it were a lifeline.

She shook her head and started to leave, but he called softly, "Hruti"

She turned, meeting his blank, unreadable gaze.

From the drawer, he pulled out her mangalsutra, holding it before her. She faced him fully as he carefully lifted her long hair above her shoulder and clasped the mangalsutra around her neck. Every movement was deliberate, slow, as if he existed in a world of his own making.

Then he placed both hands on her shoulders and leaned against her, his cheek resting on her left shoulder while her hair brushed his right. Her hand rested lightly on his beard, and he exhaled-a long, relieved sigh.

"Kuchh hua hai?" she asked, her fingers gently caressing his beard. He simply nodded.

(Has something happened?)

"Chai pioge?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to gauge his response. He shook his head.

(Will you have some tea?)

"Main bana kar laati hoon," she said softly, stepping back.

(I'll make it and bring it.)

He moved into his room from the dressing area and leaned on the balcony railing, staring into the darkness. Silence enveloped him like a shroud.

His phone buzzed-a secured message: "Insan thak ke ghar hi jata hai."

(A person only goes home when they are tired.)

He typed a reply without looking away from the void: "Ghar se thaka hua insan kaha jata hai?"

(Where does a person who is tired from home go?)

Pocketing the phone, he returned to staring into nothingness, letting the quiet seep into him, unbroken, heavy, and infinite.

Vritant felt a familiar weight of fur brush against his leg.

"Not now, Karma," he muttered without looking.

But Karma didn't listen. The dog jumped up, paws scrabbling against him, barking insistently, as if saying, "Take me with you!"

"I said no, Karma!" Vritant's voice snapped, louder this time. The sudden intensity startled the dog, and he leapt away, letting out a low, confused bark.

"Vritant, usko kyun daat rahe ho?" Adhrita's voice floated from behind. He turned to see her standing there, tray in hand. Tea. She had made it anyway.

"It's fine," she whispered, kneeling to scoop Karma into her arms. "He's disturbed, okay? Don't disturb him."

But Karma, still anxious, whimpered, his little cries tugging at Vritant's chest.

"Karma... don't cry," she cooed, hugging him gently. Vritant's chest tightened with instant regret. Without thinking, he leaned down and took Karma from her.

Karma licked his face in relief, tail wagging wildly.

Vritant's hands tightened around him, and for the first time since he had snapped, he let himself soften.

He hugged the dog, who licked him mercilessly, and for a brief moment, the gruff owner became nothing more than a man clinging to the one small being that loved him unconditionally.

"Now, sleep," he whispered. Karma leapt from his lap and trotted inside, settling on his rug. The dog's eyes flicked toward the balcony, letting out a small bark before curling up.

Vritant rose from the daybed and leaned again on the railing. He felt her presence beside him and took the tea she offered. He sipped, then glanced at her, noticing her serene posture as she quietly drank.

He held her hand in his, gently opening her palm to see the faint scar-the way she had slightly slit it.

"Why do you check it every day? It's just a small scar. Seeing it won't make it vanish," she murmured.

"I check it to remind myself... because of me, your hand bled. Your career could have been halted. I thought holding me steady, your hands would tremble-but I was wrong... they bled," he said, his voice low but heavy.

"Vritant, it wasn't your fault. It was-" she began, but he cut her off mid-sentence.

"It was my fault. Isn't that why you married me? To protect your identity as a doctor, which your father threatened to strip away?" His gaze held hers, sharp and unwavering.

She blinked, a flicker of shock on her face. "How do you know?"

He drew her closer, caressing the scar one last time before letting go of her hand and wrapping his arm around her. "Ek baar bata dete... itna bada sacrifice nahi karna padta," he whispered.

"Main aapko bina shadi ke bhi protect karta..." he added, voice softening.

(I'd protect you even without marriage.)

"Maybe that's why I married you," she said, tilting her head slightly. "You would have been in my life anyway, so... why not make it official?"

"Bada biwi banne ka shaukh chada hai..." he murmured, sipping his tea.

(You've suddenly developed a fancy for acting like a wife.)

"At least I'm a wife. Look at you-name sake husband," she teased, turning her head to sip her tea.

"What? You want me to kiss you?" he asked, voice low.

"As if you will," she replied, impromptu. Both froze for a heartbeat. "I mean... you never share anything with me. Something's bothering you now, but I can't figure out how to comfort you." She leaned her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes.

"Race," he murmured into her hair. "It always calms me."

"Then let's go to the race," she whispered, a hint of challenge in her tone. He blinked, caught off guard. Was she... really offering this?

??? V ? A ???

He opened the garage again, revealing the carefully curated chaos of his car collection. His fingers brushed across sleek curves, but he didn't pause-he knew exactly which one he wanted.

The 2025 Audi A6 e-tron Avant RS, his favorite. Heartstopper. Pure precision wrapped in steel.

He slid into the driver's seat. Adhrita settled beside him, calm, poised, like she belonged there-because she did.

He glanced at her. The small bindi on the steering wheel caught the light. A slow smile tugged at his lips as a memory surfaced-their roka day. The one who had worn that bindi then was now sitting beside him, in his world, in his seat.

Engine hummed. He revved it once, testing, savoring the growl. Then without warning, the world blurred. Tires screeched, the cityscape melted past, and the track loomed ahead.

Adhrita leaned back slightly, gripping the side handle, but her eyes sparkled-not with fear, but anticipation.

Vritant's lips curved into a dark smirk. "Hold on," he murmured, and the Audi surged forward, devouring asphalt like it owed him something.

The track was theirs. No rules, no politics, no chaos from the outside-just speed, control, and the unspoken tether between them.

He reached the track and slowed, rolling down the window. A nod to a lean figure near the start line.

"He is Jack," Vritant said, eyes sharp, voice low.

"Your friend?" Adhrita asked, glancing sideways at him.

He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "There are 52 cards in a deck... and he's one of them. I mean, he is a dealer of chaos," he replied, a glint in his eyes. "Every race has one."

The cars lined up, engines growling, tires hissing against asphalt like wild beasts eager to be unleashed. The lights blinked.

Adhrita tightened her grip slightly, not out of fear, but in anticipation. Vritant's fingers flexed around the wheel, each knuckle pale. His dark eyes scanned the track, calculating, alive, predatory.

He glanced at her. "Ready?"

She tilted her head, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. "You mean... survive?"

"Survive or dominate," he muttered, the words more to himself than her.

The lights dropped to green. The world erupted. Tires screamed, engines roared, and the Audi lunged forward like a predator unleashed.

The Audi roared, tires screeching against asphalt as Vritant launched onto the track. Adhrita's fingers clenched the dashboard, knuckles white. Her shoulder pressed to his side as the first turn hit, body jolting against him.

"Vritant! Are you insane?" she shouted over the roar, heart hammering.

He didn't slow, didn't even glance at her. Instead, his hand brushed hers lightly on the dashboard. A flash of warmth in the chaos. "Eyes open, copilot. The track listens to those who don't blink."

The next curve came hard. G-forces threw her against him again. Her hair brushed his chest. His arm shifted subtly, holding her just a fraction closer, steadying her in the storm. She felt the faint heat of him through her sleeve, pulse syncing with the engine's growl.

Adhrita's hands gripped the dashboard.

"Vritant! Be careful!" she shouted, voice sharp but betraying a hint of thrill.

He didn't even glance at her. "If you wanted careful, you should've married a banker."

Another turn. The car drifted slightly. Adhrita's body pressed against his side again. She exhaled sharply. "I feel like I'm going to throw up," she admitted, fingers brushing against his arm.

He let a smirk tug at his lips. "Good. Means I'm doing my job." His arm shifted subtly behind her seat, just enough to steady her without saying a word.

Another straight stretch. He shifted gears, fingers brushing hers again, lingering just long enough to anchor her. She exhaled, tension melting into trust, adrenaline into a shared rhythm.

"I... I don't know if I'm living or dying!" she screamed, gripping the seatbelt so hard her knuckles whitened.

He laughed-dark, rough, low. "If you can't tell, then I'm driving right."

Another straight stretch. The car surged forward, wind tearing at the edges of the cabin. Adhrita's hair whipped across her face. He reached over, brushing it back, and she caught the faintest warmth of his hand on her cheek.

"Vritant! That tickles!" she shouted, half-laughing, half-panicked.

"Tickle, pain... same thing in this car," he replied, smirk tugging at his lips. "Focus on the road, or we'll both end up kissing asphalt."

"Eyes on the road!" she snapped, heart torn between fury and exhilaration.

"Eyes everywhere," he countered, dark amusement glinting.

"You're insane," she hissed, though her voice trembled less now.

"Insane dies on the first turn. I don't."

And she saw it then-the way the track bent to his will, the way danger bowed instead of devouring him. He wasn't chasing thrill; he was the thrill.

By the final lap, she was leaning slightly into him, hand brushing the seatbelt-and his arm instinctively curved behind her back. No words, just a silent understanding: in this chaos, they were tethered. Alive together.

The checkered flag approached. Engines hissed as they slowed. She let out a long breath, still pressed lightly to his side, hair messy from the wind.

Vritant leaned back, smirk dark and playful. "Not bad... for someone who keeps whining about fear."

Adhrita exhaled, hair tangled, heartbeat wild. "I hate you," she whispered, half breath, half laugh.

Vritant finally looked at her, smirk dark and soft all at once. "Good," he murmured. "You should."

Vritant stepped out of the car and immediately opened her door. Adhrita tried to steady herself, but her legs betrayed her. He was faster, catching her effortlessly, his arms solid, unyielding. Without a word, he carried her toward the nearest cabin.

Inside, she doubled over and vomited.

He stood behind her, steady, holding her hair back with one hand while brushing loose strands from her face. His other hand pressed lightly to her back, a grounding weight she didn't know she needed.

"You actually threw up," he muttered, voice low, almost amused but sharp at the edges.

Adhrita gave a weak groan, leaning against him, and he continued holding her, unflinching.

"You can never be fine with me," he said finally, calm, certain, and dark - a statement, not a question.

Just then, Jack appeared with a bottle of water and handed it to Vritant. He opened the cap, tilted it toward her lips, and she drank, leaning lightly against him. When she finished, he handed the bottle back to Jack, who nodded and left.

Vritant's hand moved with quiet precision, wiping the corner of her mouth. Then, almost instinctively, he pulled her into a brief, firm hug - nothing casual, everything controlled.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice low. "You came to comfort me, and-here."

Adhrita tilted her head against his chest, gripping his t-shirt. "I... I'm fine. Hate to admit it... but I kind of like it."

He held her for a heartbeat longer, then guided her gently back toward the car. Once she was seated, he slid into the driver's seat and studied her face in the rearview mirror.

"She's fine," he muttered to himself, voice low, almost toying with the idea of letting the moment linger. Then he started the car, driving slowly, and took her hand in his.

"Vritant... are you feeling good now?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer.

"Fine. Don't tell me anything," she said, trying to pull her hand back, but he held it without hesitation - steady, unyielding.

"Force karoge?" she asked, voice tense.

He dropped her hand immediately. No words.

He drove forward, stopping the car once he reached home. She opened the door, but he didn't move.

"Are you not coming?" she asked, a flicker of confusion in her voice.

"No," he said, tightening his grip on the wheel. "I have somewhere to go."

Her vomit, and everything - the track, the cabin, the racing chaos - was rushing through his mind. She closed the door, frozen.

"Let's go somewhere," she said softly, not looking at him. He started the car again and drove in silence toward the lake.

"And you wanted to be here alone, without me?" she asked. He didn't answer. Once they reached the spot, he got out of the car; she followed. He walked toward a narrower path, waiting for her to catch up.

Ahead stood a small, wooden house.

"Whose house is this?" she asked, curiosity edging her tone.

He ascended the steps and opened the door without a word.

"Vritant, why are you sile-" She stopped mid-sentence as her eyes adjusted. The house was dark, save for a few exquisite candle stands. He moved to a drawer, lighting candles one by one, each flame throwing delicate shadows across the room.

"No electricity?" she asked.

He walked to the window, opening it silently.

"What are we doing here?" Her patience was thinning.

"I can drop you home if you want," he said flatly, voice calm and precise. "I don't intend to force you."

Her eyes widened at the quiet weight in his voice. He didn't move, didn't soften - the space between them remained his, sharp and deliberate.

"You thought... you forced me?"

He hesitated just for a heartbeat before nodding, and her eyes widened at the subtle shift - a rare crack in his usual control.

She stepped closer and hugged him, pressing into the solid weight of his chest.

"You're really mad," she murmured softly. And for the first time in a while, he felt a flicker of relief - she wasn't accusing him. Everything else swirling in his mind slowed, just slightly.

She was trying, in her own way, to make him feel right; he was doing everything to make it harder. He circled his arms around her, pulling her closer with an unspoken insistence, grounding her to him.

"Ice cream?" he asked, voice low, almost casual. She looked up at him, a small nod, her expression unexpectedly childlike.

He allowed a brief, rare smile before stepping back from the hug.

He moved toward the kitchen, opened the small fridge, and returned with the tub of ice cream and a spoon.

He handed it to her, the action precise, controlled - yet there was a quiet softness beneath it, only noticeable if you looked closely.

She started eating, slow and deliberate, then offered him a spoon. He took it, eyes briefly scanning her face, catching the faint smear near her lips. Without hesitation, his thumb brushed it away, and she froze under the simple, deliberate touch.

"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low.

She looked up at him, a genuine, wide smile breaking through. He let a small, almost imperceptible smile tug at his lips. Taking the spoon again, he guided it toward her mouth, precise, controlled, letting her savor it.

She laughed softly, the sound fragile and unguarded. "I didn't know I could love ice cream this much," she admitted, leaning slightly into him.

He didn't comment, didn't tease. He simply handed her another bite, letting the quiet intimacy of the moment speak louder than words.

When she was done, she placed everything neatly in the kitchen. He didn't comment, only said, flatly, "You can change into my clothes."

"We're staying here?" she asked, a note of excitement in her voice. He simply nodded.

She opened his small wardrobe and pulled out a long T-shirt and tracks, a small smile playing on her lips. He moved silently through the room, blowing out a few candles, leaving the soft glow of moonlight. She disappeared into the washroom and emerged a few minutes later.

He went to change, and when he returned, he found her lying on the bed, gazing at the moonlight spilling through the window.

"I'm missing Karma," she murmured as he sat down beside her. Without a word, he grabbed the comforter and draped it over her, then settled beside her on the small bed. There was barely space, yet he made it work, deliberate in every movement.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked quietly.

She diverted her gaze from the moon to him and shifted closer, pressing herself into his side. "Now I am," she whispered.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her hair. When she pressed a quick, fleeting kiss to his neck, he stilled, awareness sharpening.

"Hri..." he whispered, low, almost a growl, and she looked up at him, startled and captivated by the sudden weight in his voice.

He gripped her waist, pulling her closer than she had even realized.

"Sleep," he murmured, voice low, almost commanding. She looked at him, confused, then turned into his embrace and closed her eyes.

Vritant brushed her hair away from her neck, careful not to hurt her.

His fingers lingered, tracing the delicate curve of her skin until they brushed the two small moles there.

He felt her grip tighten on his other hand.

A subtle scent, faint and intoxicating, reached him.

He rubbed behind her ear, and a slight pressure of her foot against his leg made him lean closer.

His lips brushed the soft skin near her moles, and her whisper of his name startled and tempted him at once.

He paused, letting the sound linger in the air, then kissed the spot again, firmer this time.

Slowly, deliberately, he shifted her toward him, leaving a trail of kisses along her collarbone.

Her hand tangled in his hair, grounding him, holding him.

Her eyes met his - those eyes. Always captivating, always defiant. From the day they met, they had made him pause, obey, and want. Even now, one silent "no" from her and he would stop.

He took her hand slowly, deliberately, letting her fingers relax against his. His thumb pressed lightly against her pulse, feeling it flutter beneath his touch.

"Not steady," he whispered, voice low, almost inaudible, yet enough for her to hear and feel it reverberate. He intertwined their fingers, holding them near her head, anchoring them with a quiet insistence.

He bent slightly toward her lips, close enough to feel her warm breath brush against his. The world narrowed to the faint rise and fall of her chest, the subtle scent of her hair, the trembling pull of her pulse beneath his thumb.

A fleeting thought flashed through his mind - should he? - but before he could answer himself, the tiniest, almost imperceptible touch of her lips grazed his. A shock, soft and deliberate, and yet it carried all the weight of surrender, trust, and temptation.

Her lips lingered only for a moment, but it sent a ripple through him, sharp and intoxicating. He didn't move forward immediately - not yet. Instead, he let the weight of the moment settle, the quiet between them thick with unspoken desires.

She pressed closer, as if daring him, or maybe trusting him, and he felt the pull - magnetic, inevitable. His other hand shifted slightly, tracing the line of her shoulder, steadying her without breaking the rhythm of her heartbeat under his thumb.

Every sense sharpened: the faint scent of her perfume mixing with the night air, the soft warmth of her skin against him, the slow rise and fall of her chest. He wanted to measure, to savor, to memorize every nuance, yet a part of him feared losing control.

Her breath hitched as his lips hovered near hers once more. Instinctively, he bent a fraction closer, the world outside vanishing - no racing tracks, no chaos, no city lights. Only them, suspended in a fragile orbit of tension and trust.

He pressed a soft, fleeting peck to her lips, just enough to tease the edges of desire. Just as he was about to claim her fully, he froze, pulling back to rest his head against her neck. His voice was low, raw with restraint.

"I can't... let you burn in my flame."

He felt her grip slacken slightly, and he shifted just enough to meet her gaze.

"Don't call it a mistake," she whispered, avoiding his eyes.

"It's not a mistake," he said quietly, deliberate, laying beside her with measured closeness.

"Are you... regretting?" Her voice trembled, fragile.

He turned sharply to her, pulling her into his arms again, the heat of his presence anchoring her. "Never. Never with you," he murmured, each word a promise, steady and irrevocable.

"Do you... want to kiss me?" she whispered into his neck.

"Honestly... yes. But I can't," he said, voice low, controlled, yet raw with desire.

He paused, letting the moment linger, then added, "Do you... want to?"

She closed her eyes briefly, words caught in her throat. "I've never felt like this before," she whispered, careful not to answer.

He tilted his head, dark eyes searching hers. "Do you want to kiss me, wife?"

She met his gaze for a fleeting moment. "Why would not a wife want her husband to love her?" Her voice was soft.

"Even if... it was forced?" he pressed gently, feeling her stillness, the slight tremor in her chest. She said nothing.

"Ace," he murmured, calling her name like a tether, but she remained silent.

"I forgot our marriage was forced," she admitted, voice low, eyes closing again. "I can be a wife... but I can't be a wife."

He called her again, more insistently this time, "Ace."

"Let's... sleep," she whispered, retreating into herself.

He held her close, feeling the shift in her, the unspoken turmoil he couldn't yet name. Something had happened, something unspoken, but he couldn't figure out what. And for the first time, the calculated certainty that always guided him wavered, if only slightly.

Raced my Audi, almost lost her dinner, got ice cream, watched the moon, and somehow ended up in trouble before bedtime-standard evening with me.

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